by Lauren Rowe
Aloha giggles, clearly enthralled by everything I just said.
“And regardless,” I continue, “my two choices can’t include someone I’ve already slept with.”
“You haven’t slept with me.”
“But I’ve slept with Daphne!”
“So you keep reminding me.”
“I don’t ‘keep reminding’ you of anything, Little Miss Pickle Collector. You’re the one who keeps asking me annoying questions about Daphne. I never bring her up.”
She pauses, the expression on her face conceding my point. “Side note? I feel like referring to me as a pickle collector has a much naughtier connotation than referring to Keane as one. Don’t you?”
I chuckle. “Good point.”
She grips my forearm. “Would it entice you to play my reindeer game if I go first? Go ahead. Ask me if I’d rather do Zander Shaw or any celebrity in the world. Pick anyone you want, even Dwayne Johnson, my biggest celebrity crush, and I’ll answer with complete honesty.”
“I’m not gonna ask you jack shit, pickle girl.”
“My answer is youuu! Okay. Your turn.”
I glare at her.
“Fine. You don’t have to tell me which one of us—Daphne or me—you’d rather do, if playing the game makes you clutch your freaking pearls. You can just tell me which of the two of us you find sexier.”
“Oh, yeah, because that’s not the exact same question phrased another way.”
“Booooo!” she booms. She swats at my arm. “You’re being a stick in the mud, Shaggy Swaggy.”
“How about I tell you who’s more annoying? Gee, let me think. Oh, I know: you.”
She flaps her lips together. “Just tell me. I need to collect your pickle, dude. I’ve got an itchy pickle finger.”
We both laugh.
“Aloha, seriously. I can’t possibly say which one of you is ‘sexier.’ The two of you are just too different to compare.”
“In what ways are we different?”
“In every way imaginable.”
“Elaborate.”
I sigh. “Daphne is this blonde, blue-eyed volleyball player art student amazon. She’s almost six feet tall.”
“She sounds like a nightmare.”
“And she’s mysterious. Kind of ethereal. She always kept her cards close to her vest. I could never be sure what she was thinking.”
“And you liked that? Shit, she sounds like torture. But enough about stupid Daphne. Tell me about me.”
“You’re the anti-Daphne.”
“Thank God.”
“You’re a five-foot-four, green-eyed force of nature with zero filter. You say whatever is on your mind at all fucking times. You not only don’t keep your cards close to your vest—you hurl the entire deck at me twenty-four-seven. You endlessly pester me to answer questions I do not want to answer. You hack into my phone like it’s yours. And you climb me like I’m your own personal jungle gym.”
“You don’t like it when I climb you?”
“I love when you climb me. But that’s beside the point.”
Her eyes are dancing. “What’s the point? I’m having a hard time discerning it because, sorry, from what you’ve described, I blow doors on Daphne.”
I laugh. “I’m just saying you’re nothing like Daphne, which means it would be like comparing apples to oranges to compare the two of you. That’s all I’m saying and that’s the truth.”
But it’s not the truth. It’s a lie. Even as I’m giving my indignant speech, I’m realizing, without a doubt, that Aloha the Apple is way, way sexier to me than Daphne the Orange ever was. If presented with both women buck naked on silver platters, both of them beckoning me with open thighs, it’s suddenly crystal clear to me I’d head straight for Aloha with drool running down my chin. And I truly don’t know when or how that happened, seeing as how mere days ago I sat on a couch in Daxy’s living room watching every one of Aloha’s music videos and thought to myself, “How the fuck am I gonna win Daphne back?”
“Was Daphne your first love?” Aloha asks.
“No.”
“How many times have you been in love, excluding Daphne and me?”
I laugh. “Five or six. Maybe seven, if you count kindergarten.”
“All by the tender age of twenty-four? Holy crap, dude. Put a cork in that bottle on occasion. You’re out of control.”
“Life is short.”
“Yeah, but it’s not that short. You don’t have the lifespan of an inchworm.”
I laugh again. Because, apparently, even when Aloha Carmichael is being annoying, I find her utterly charming.
“How the hell have you fallen in love that much?” she asks.
“I don’t try to fall in love. I just do. I’m a leaper. It’s how I roll. Although, not gonna lie, getting dumped for the first time in my life last week has made me wonder if maybe I should try doing things a bit differently going forward. But, still, I regret nothing. I’ve had a blast falling in love. It’s the best feeling in the world.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You’ve truly never been in love?”
“I’ve been in heavy like. And I did love my gay ex-boyfriend. But loving someone who’s gay and letting him use you as a beard isn’t what I’d call being ‘in love.’”
I tilt my head. “I find it interesting so many of your songs are about love and heartbreak and you’ve never experienced either.”
“Who says? I’ve been heartbroken, just not about romantic love. And I’ve felt love. I just haven’t been ‘in love.’ So when I sing about those things, I just tap into the feelings I’ve actually had and extrapolate. I don’t write my own songs, remember? I just sing what my team tells me to sing and make it work for myself as best I can.”
“I assumed your songs were at least tailored to you and your life.”
“Nope. I’m a puppet, remember? I just give the people what they want. And what they want is love songs, not ‘heavy like’ songs. Ha! Can you imagine? ‘I’ve never been in love but I’ve been in heavy like. So, come on, baby, come on over tonight. Come and be my first, the one who figures out the riddle. Teach me how to feel it, how to break this wretched curse.’”
“Did you just come up with that on the fly?”
“Yeah.”
“You should write that song. You could make it a cool twist on a love song.”
“That? Oh, no. I was just being silly. That was stupid. I’ll leave the songwriting to the professionals.”
“What’s silly about it? Why not put some of your true self into your music?”
She rolls her eyes. “Now look who’s being silly.”
“Why? I think your fans would love to hear songs from you that are a peek at the real you.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You can’t write a song, or you can’t write an honest one? Because, if you ask me, you could sit down and write a song today. You came up with those lyrics right off the top of your head.”
“Yeah, I came up with lame lyrics. Big whoop.”
“Have you ever written a song?”
“I used to write songs all the time. Not anymore.”
“When was that?”
“Years ago. Back when I was still on the show. I was obsessed with songwriting, actually. I’d write lyrics nonstop in my journal—sometimes on napkins or scraps of paper if inspiration was really flowing. Melodies would flood me in the shower and I’d jump out with shampoo in my hair to work out the chords on my ukulele or guitar. I didn’t tell anyone about my songs for the longest time, just because I was insecure about them. And when I finally did get the courage up to share my songs, it was a horrible experience. So I stick with poetry now. Lyrics, still, I guess. But lyrics nobody will ever hear set to music.”
My heart aches at the look on her face. “What happened when you shared your songs? Why was it a horrible experience?”
Aloha sighs. But she doesn’t speak.
I touch her hand. “Tell me, Aloha. Please?
”
She twists her mouth for a moment before saying, “I’d just signed with my first label and we were gearing up to record my debut album. I told my producer I wanted the album to be ultra-personal—a window into my soul. A coming-out-party for the real Aloha, as opposed to the Aloha character everyone saw on TV for a decade. So my label teamed me up with a couple professional songwriters—the best in the business—and I got up the courage to pull out my guitar and play them a few of my songs. They said they liked them and thought we could build on them. But then my mother got wind of my lyrics and lost her damned mind. She said there was no way in hell she’d let me air my ‘dirty laundry’ to the entire world. She said nobody wanted to hear about anything but girl power and love songs from me. She said my album would tank if we used any of my stuff, just like my best friend Cassie’s had tanked six months earlier. So I gave in and let the professionals take over. I figured when my debut album inevitably bombed like Cassie’s had, I’d get dropped by my label the same way Cassie had been dropped by hers, and then I’d be free to write and record any songs I wanted, whether they were terrible or not. I figured I’d release my second album as a little indie passion project on my own dime and write every song for it personally, even if people made fun of me. But, of course, as you know, that’s not what happened. My debut album went platinum with four top ten singles, including two number ones. And just that fast, the Aloha Carmichael brand became set in stone. With my second album, we stuck with the proven formula and it was an even bigger smash. And now, here we are, six albums later, and I’m still giving my Aloha-nators exactly what they want.”
I touch Aloha’s arm. “But you’re twenty-three now, sweetheart. You’re allowed to take some risks and make art, if that’s what you want to do.”
She looks entirely unconvinced.
“Will you play me some of your songs?”
Aloha shakes her head. “It’s been so long since I pulled out my ukulele or guitar, I couldn’t even play them if I tried. And, trust me, you don’t want to hear them, anyway. They were total shit. In retrospect, those songwriters were just boosting my fragile ego when they said my songs had potential. Honestly, my mother did me a huge favor by squashing my ridiculous dreams. It’s literally the only favor she’s ever done me, but she was right.”
My stomach tightens. “I’d bet anything those songwriters were being honest with you.”
“I guess we’ll never know.”
Oh, my heart. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her closer to me. In reply, she lays her head on my chest, slings her legs over my lap, and snuggles close. And that’s how Aloha and I remain for a very long time, with her legs draped over my lap and our bodies cleaved together and her head on my chest... until, finally, her head lolls against my chest, letting me know the beautiful girl with Satan for a mother has fallen fast asleep.
Chapter 22
Zander
It’s a few minutes past eight when our bus pulls up in front of our hotel in San Diego. Aloha is still dead asleep against my shoulder. I’m drunk on the scent of her coconut shampoo. And there’s a sizeable throng of enthusiastic Aloha-nators, some of them holding signs, lots of them wearing flowers in their hair, awaiting Aloha outside the hotel entrance. There also appears to be a few local TV reporters and possibly a paparazzi or two, though I’m no expert at differentiating the paparazzi just yet.
When the bus comes to a stop, Crystal makes her way to Aloha and gently nudges her shoulder. “Honey, wake up. We’re in San Diego.”
Aloha stirs, rubs her face, and looks groggily out the bus window at the waiting crowd. “Oh, God. Not now, people.”
Crystal follows Aloha’s gaze out the bus window. “I’m surprised there are paps waiting for the bus.” She narrows her eyes at me. “That’s because of you, boy toy. They’re obviously hoping for a repeat of yesterday’s shenanigans.”
“I had nothing to do with yesterday’s shenanigans. That was all Drunk Aloha’s fault.”
“No, it was your fault.” Crystal motions to my body like, somehow, my sheer physicality offends her. “They want more shots of this.”
Aloha says, “I’ve been meaning to tell you nothing happened between Zander and me. I was just being a famewhore when I talked to that TMZ guy.”
Crystal looks openly disappointed. Her eyes drift across my body for an unmistakable beat. “Pity.”
My cheeks hot, I glance out the window and notice Brett standing out there, already scoping out the crowd. “Let’s give Brett a minute to get the lay of the land before we get off the bus.”
“Good,” Aloha says. “That’ll give me time to cover this travesty.” She indicates her exhausted, hung over face and calls to her makeup artist on the other end of the bus to “work her magic.”
The makeup artist flies into action. And as she works, the Aloha-nators outside the bus begin serenading Aloha with an enthusiastic acapella rendition of “Pretty Girl.”
“Aw, listen to them singing for me,” Aloha says, her eyes closed as her makeup artist applies shadow to her lids. “They’re so sweet.”
“They love you,” the makeup artist replies. “Everybody loves you, Aloha.”
My stomach somersaults.
Aloha says nothing.
The makeup artist finishes her work and Aloha stands. She pulls her dark hair out of its messy bun and addresses me. “You ready, boy toy?”
“Ready, Miss Carmichael.”
“Now don’t forget. Those paps out there are hoping to capture our every lascivious look, so make sure you gaze at me like you just finished fucking me to within an inch of my life.”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
“Well, then, at least look at me like you think I’m beautiful and charming.”
“Aloha, I couldn’t keep myself from looking at you like that if I tried.”
A crooked grin spreads across Aloha’s face—her beautiful face—and I wink at her. But I sense something dark lurking beneath Aloha’s uneven smile—something more than her hangover. Anxiety, if I had to name it.
“You okay?” I ask.
She fidgets and looks out the window. “I’m fine. I just...” She takes a deep breath, like she’s trying to force air into her lungs. “When fans are gathered spontaneously like this—when there are lots of them and they’re not organized and controlled like they are at meet and greets—and I’m not feeling good, like now—I worry they’re going to start crowding me too much and I won’t have any personal space and I’ll...” She glances toward the members of her team on the other side of her bus and whispers, “I don’t want the paps or reporters to capture me having a panic attack on camera. It would go viral. I’d be mortified.”
Oh, my heart. How is it the girl I thought had the world at her feet actually has the weight of it on her shoulders? I grab Aloha’s hand. “If you’re feeling the least bit claustrophobic or anxious, just tap your nose like this and I’ll swoop in to be your human shield. Tap your nose twice and I’ll bend down so you can hop aboard my back, and then I’ll whisk you far, far away.”
Aloha smiles shyly. “Okay. Thank you.”
In my peripheral vision, I sense Aloha’s makeup artist and tour manager, Crystal, exchanging a swooning look, but I don’t pay them any mind. Aloha is my only concern in this moment. I tap on a window to get Brett’s attention outside and he gives me a thumbs-up. “Okay, hula girl. We’re good to go. You ready to do this shit, dude?”
She nods. “Ready, dude.” But she doesn’t look ready. At all.
“You look perfect, Aloha,” Aloha’s makeup artist says brightly.
“Gorgeous,” Crystal agrees.
But Aloha’s eyes are still trained on me. Like my opinion is the only one that matters to her.
I nod and smile. “You look like a butt-kicker.”
She exhales. “Okay. Let’s do this shit, dude.”
I move in front of her and lead her toward the front exit. But just before we reach the door of the bus, I hear Aloha mutter to
herself, “Panic attacks are for pussies, Aloha.”
I stop walking and turn around. “You need a minute, honey?”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m fine.” She addresses the bus driver. “Open the door, please, Frank.”
The bus driver opens the door and, immediately, a tidal wave of shrieks and cheers slams into us. I step off the bus and guide Aloha to the ground... and, just that fast, the trembling, twitching girl from the bus transforms into Aloha fucking Carmichael. She smiles, whips her hair, and then, her hand gripping mine like a vise, sashays with all the swagger in the world toward her adoring fans.
Chapter 23
Zander
Aloha and I are sitting side by side on a private plane headed for Salt Lake City, the fifth stop on Aloha’s tour. And for the first time since we worked out in the hotel gym together in Phoenix and then hung out in her room watching a double feature of Rudy and White Men Can’t Jump, Aloha and I are alone again. Although, technically, we’re not actually alone on this jet. The same people in Aloha’s usual traveling entourage are scattered throughout this private plane. But sitting here with Aloha in the back of the plane, the armrest between us lifted all the way up and her body snuggled firmly against mine, I can’t help feeling like we’re the only two people on this plane. Maybe even in the world.
“That was incredible!” Aloha gushes as the credits roll on Maddy’s new documentary. “And Keane was amazing in it! He lit up the screen! I wonder if Maddy would let me send it to the casting director who used to work on It’s Aloha!. Even if she doesn’t have a project that’d be right for Keane, I bet she knows tons of casting directors who might.”
My heart explodes in my chest. “That’d be amazing.”
“I just wish I had some sort of Keane highlight reel from the movie. Do you think Maddy would edit something like that for me?”
“Absolutely. Or you could just send your friend links to a few Ball Peen Hammer videos on YouTube. Those are all short and sweet and Keane is just as charming in those.”